


Defiance

by Sky_kiss



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Angst and Smut, Ardyn Izunia Being Ardyn Izunia, Bahamut (Final Fantasy XV) Being a Jerk, Character Study, Enemies to Lovers, Everything is terrible if you're a Fleuret, F/M, Reincarnation, Some Episode Ardyn Spoilers, who remain enemies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-23 19:17:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18708334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sky_kiss/pseuds/Sky_kiss
Summary: Lunafreya remembers her lady mother's words: theirs was a cursed bloodline. In her youth it had struck her as heretical; they served as messengers of the gods. They healed the Scourge. They were precious. After her Ascencion she realizes the truth.There are moments when she hears another woman's voice in her head. Her memories flood Lunafreya's dreams. To serve as the Oracle was to shoulder the sins of their progenitor. The Lady Aera, beloved by man and god alike, who had failed in her duty and betrayed her calling.





	Defiance

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, you know when you wanna write smut for a niche pairing and then you spend almost ten thousand words developing Luna's character through mental torture? Yeaaaaaaaah. Anyway. Hope you enjoy. <3

In truth, he cannot say what leads him to Tenebrae that first time. Niflheim will not annex the country for a few years yet and it is...inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. The Queen greets him with courtly graces all the same. She plays the dutiful hostess even as her hands tremble.

She sees him as an ill omen more than a diplomatic overture. By his own _humble_ estimations that makes her a clever woman. And, by all accounts, she is quite the noble leader. He would spare her more concern but alas. Time has a way of repeating itself and Sylva will no doubt die as all the Ladies Fleuret before her: a sacrifice to preserve a less worthy Caelum male.

The Chancellor shakes her company as soon as he is able. He has not come for her. He comes, instead, for the garden. Call it nostalgia; call it some long buried breed of romanticism or whatever else you pleased. The name has changed over the course of the centuries but Tenebrae has always brought him some semblance of peace. The Chancellor purses his lips, crouching. Sylleblossoms bloom here with the same vivacity as any weed. He hesitates, fingers ghosting over the petals, before gripping the stem.

A pity to waste so rare a thing. He plucks it regardless, that same hollow feeling pooling low in his belly.

It is a lifetime ago now but he remembers weaving these flowers into a pretty crown for an equally pretty young lady. He remembers her laugh. Subdued, as befit a lady of rank, but no less warm and no less genuine. He remembers the heat of her skin and the feel of her hands tangled in his hair.

Most of all, he remembers the silence. The daemon’s had not been so vocal in those early days, still cowed by the Draconian’s light, and he had found peace in Tenebrae. He reaches out for a second flower only to come up short.

A voice, sharp and feminine and achingly _young_ , shatters his recollections.

“Do not pick the flowers,” she says, all righteous fury, hands balled into fists at her sides. Ardyn arches a brow, nakedly amused, as the young woman stalks in front of him. The Lady Lunafreya is no older than nine the first time they meet. He is a good deal taller even crouched, more than twice as broad, yet she fails to break step. Lunafreya positions herself between the Chancellor of Niflheim and the sylleblossoms, brilliant in her indignation, “You cannot _do_ that.”

The newest Oracle is a delicate child, tall only for her age and bordering on coltish. The Fleuret women have been slender, willowy, creatures from time immemorial and why should two thousand years matter to Bahamut's favored daughters? He feels the hint of a genuine smile tugging at his lips as she squares her posture.

Ardyn stands with the sylleblossom still pinched between his thumb and forefinger, amused at the way her eyes widen. He towers over her, a black mark on this otherwise pastoral scene.

And yet the Lady does not run. She shifts her weight onto her back foot but does not move away, blue eyes lit with challenge. She holds her head higher, indicating his prize with an accusative little finger, “Those are precious, sir,” and he has never, in all his many years, heard as much derision infused into the space of three letters. “I must ask you to desist.”

“Ah, but you need not _ask_ a man such as myself, Lady. I might suggest you go so far as to make it an order.” She blinks, surprised by his agreeableness. Ardyn tucks the blossom behind his back, “Go on. Consider it practice for your most venerable future.”

She does not trust him even if an emotion not unakin to hope flickers through her eyes. They are a pale blue. He has never found their rival outside the Fleuret house and even that had been restricted to…

A pretty young woman. Older than this child standing before him. He makes a lazy gesture with his hand, indicating she must get on with it.

“Mother says I am to treat all guests with respect…”

“I found your little tyrade quite respectful, my dear.”

And that does earn him a smile, small and guarded but notably present. “You will not touch the sylleblossoms, sir. They are…” she worries her lip. Her next words are not her own; they are instilled in her by years of lessons and tedious rules of courtly decorum. “Only for royals.”

If only you knew, dear girl. But he clutches his chest as if wounded, all theatrics, his scarves tangling about his forearms, “And how could I question such a ruling? Your flowers shall be safe from here on, lady. You have my most solemn vow.”

She grins, idly reaches up to tuck a stray lock of white blond hair behind her ear. The motion is not just familiar. It is _identical_ to one he has seen a thousand times before. On another woman, in another life. The same flick of her narrow wrists; the same twitch of her lips.

He finds himself holding the sylleblossom out to her, darkly curious, “You will be wanting this back.” She does not take it. Lunafreya cocks her head to the side, shifts her weight back.

“It is already dead. There is no harm in letting you keep it.”

“A generous gift. Though, perhaps...you might prefer a trade?”

The caution again. She is a clever little thing. Her blue eyes narrow, arms coming across her chest. A picture of courtly decorum even tinged as she is with her rebellion, “A trade?”

He nods, “You will grant me this lovely flower and, in exchange, you may make any one request of me. Within reason, of course.”

“A generous offer.”

“As you said: this is a _most_ precious gift.”

Lunafreya purses her lips. She links her hands at the small of her back, “I would ask what to call you, sir.”

Had she asked his name he might have told her the truth. But she asks ‘what to call him’ and he takes a perverse glee in something as petty as semantics. So he tells her. Sweeps the hat off his head and drops into a low and exaggerated bow, “Ardyn Izunia, my lady. Chancellor of Niflheim and your humble servant.”  
______

They do not meet again for some time. Three year, if you felt the need for precision. She is twelve, only slightly taller, and even more gangly than he remembers. Smoke still lingers on the air, coupled with the telltale scent of charred flesh. Even the rain cannot drown it out entirely.

Niflheim takes Tenebrae. The Queen is dead and the Caelums live to flee again. He wonders if the carnage will weigh on dear Regis’ soul. If he will think of the hundreds of lives sacrificed solely to preserve his son, or the princess he abandoned…

Somehow he doubts it.

Ardyn finds her in the garden. Dirt is caked across her finery and her hair is wild. She is a shadow of her former self, struck with grief. When she looks at him it is with pity. Resignation...a cadre of emotions ill suited for a girl her age.

He rocks back on his heels, “Ah, this seems to have become a habit of ours. It is a _lovely_ garden. How lucky to have company to match.”

Her voice is flat, “You honor me, sir.”

He takes some pleasure in her pain. Whatever affection he once may have harbored for her lineage withered alongside the rest of his humanity in Angelgard. And the Oracles are so fatefully entwined with the Caelum line that they may as well be one. But a moping child will not fulfill her destiny or seek out a covenant with the gods. His plans require that other Lunafreya, determined and stalwart in the face of her duty.

“General Glauca informs me that our Insomnian friends escaped. That must bring you some comfort.”

The fingers of her left hand curl inward, clutching the ruined fabric of her dress, “Will you pursue them?”

“Will I pursue them?” He chuckles, hands linked at the small of his back. Ardyn flicks few errant beads of water from his jacket, “Alas, I am not a military man.”

“Then...they are safe?”

“Safe is a matter of perspective, my dear. You and I are both aware sweet Noctis will never be _safe_. But, as it stands, we shall say he is in no imminent danger.” Lunafreya releases a ragged breath. It could pass for a sigh or perhaps a wordless prayer of gratitude. The notion that it may be the later rankles. He cocks his head to the side, “What a selfless creature you are, Lunafreya. Abandoned to an enemy nation and yet your only thoughts are for Insomnia and its royals.”

Fire lights in her eyes, “Insomnia did not bring war to our gates, sir.” He prefers her like this: coldly polite. Courtly manners laced with poison. Lunafreya lifts her head, straightening to the full extent of her meager height. “What will become of Tenebrae, Chancellor?”

And again, her thoughts are not for herself but for her people. Such tiresome nobility. Ardyn hums, glancing towards the sylleblossoms, “Ah, but it comes at cost, ladyship. A blossom for a favor.”

Her lips curl in barely veiled distaste. Luna moves past him. Her motions should be gawky or stilted and yet...there’s an elegance, a careful balance, to every step she takes. She pauses, surveys the gardens, and bends to collect her prize. The little devil presents him with a crushed blossom. The tips of its petals are singed, “Why, Lady Lunafreya, how underhanded of you.”

He raises a brow and Luna flashes him a sweet smile. A thin veil of honey over a more potent poison, “You did not specify the condition of the bloom, sir. Now, kindly answer the question.”

Ah, but the Draconian has outdone himself with this new vessel. Ardyn kneels before her, amused at the fresh caution bleeding across her features. She likes him less when they are eye to eye, well aware of his act, “Come inside, pet. It would be a shame to lose the future Oracle to something as common as the cold.”

She wants to defy him. She wants to demand her answers. But she is shivering and cold and she is a princess above all else. And so the lady holds her head high.

She does not take his arm when he offers it and he finds her little act of defiance _delightful_.  
______

She is fifteen when they finally meet again. An Oracle in truth. 

Luna remembers her lady mother’s words even now: theirs is a cursed bloodline. In her youth it had struck her as heretical. The Oracle served as the gods chosen messenger. They were an agent of healing. They were precious. As a girl she had shook her head. She had dismissed the peculiar sadness which so often tugged at Sylva’s lovely face.

It was not until her own Ascension that she understood the truth of that sentiment.

There are moments when she feels another woman’s presence in her head. Another woman’s memories bleeding into her own. All her joy, all her sorrow; the entirety of her essence is poured into Luna’s consciousness. 

To serve as the Oracle was to shoulder the sins of their progenitor. The Lady Aera, beloved by man and god alike, who had failed in her duty and betrayed her calling. That first year, Luna had forgotten how to dream. Only memories played behind her eyes. She wept for her ancestress. She wept for everything she had lost. In those darkest of moments, she imagined Aera reaching out to her. They would embrace and for a moment, just a moment, the memories would _stop_. 

She learns to deal with Aera’s intercessions. She learns to sift through the other woman’s memories and sequester them away from her own. In the intervening years it becomes almost...comforting. Her calling is isolating and Niflheim cares little for her social life. Aera...keeps the loneliness at bay. 

All is fine. All is fine until the day it isn’t.

The Imperial Chancellor is a storied man, renowned for his oddities as much as his brilliance. He whistles to himself as he pushes into the manor, twirling his umbrella. Luna is fifteen and impressionable and her first thought seems purely natural. He is handsome. Strange but handsome. And he had treated her with some measure of kindness in her youth. Why shouldn’t she find him interesting? A myriad of scarves are wound around his neck, all different sizes and patterns. His hair is a wild, rakish tangle better suited to a wayward hunter than a government official. And his eyes…

....those she cannot say she likes. They strike her as alternately amber or gold depending on the light, always sparkling with mischief and always...off. They are feline but not in the charming manner of a housecat. A coeurl stalks towards her and there are too many teeth when he smiles. 

The difference, she supposes, is Aera. During their first two encounters she had been Lunafreya, child of the Oracle, and now...

The woman in her head groans, low and miserable. Pain lances through her. Luna bites down on her tongue to keep from crying out. At fifteen she is not equipped to sort through the maelstrom of emotions: hurt, love, longing, pain, pain, _pain_ , guilt. Guilt so crushing it threatens to bring tears to her eyes.

I killed this man, she thinks. Oh, gods forgive me, I killed us both. It is a wild, agonized, cry and it threatens to rend her sanity apart. 

A finger curls beneath her chin. Luna forces herself to meet his eyes. For the briefest of moments his veil slips. The smoothness, the arrogance...it is stripped away. He falls back half a step, confusion flooding his features. He mouths that other woman’s name. His guards snap back into place just as suddenly. They are good, exceptional even, but Luna does not miss the roiling fury lacing his words. 

“Forgive an old man his impudence, my dear. Only you appeared quite lost in thought,” his thumb brushes over her throat before he releases her. He wipes his hand on his coat. As if the brush of her skin is something poisonous. “I thought I might...lend a hand, as it were.” 

Her throat is dry, “A timely intercession, my lord.” 

Oh, Ardyn, Aera’s voice fills her head, aching, what have they _done_ to you?

His chuckle is deep and rich. A lie, but a very pretty lie, as he bows his head with equally feigned deference, “Ah, you flatter me, ladyship. Alas, I am no lord. The same tired formalities still apply: Chancellor Izunia shall suffice.” 

“And if I were to call you Ardyn?” 

Those odd eyes twinkle with mischief, none of it kind, “Charming as it would be to hear my name tumbling from such a pious woman’s lips...you are far too young to be causing such scandals.”

The insinuation is not lost on her and the lowness of the words tug at something in her psyche. In Aera’s psyche. That same voice has whispered filth in her ear, unbefitting either a healer or the Oracle. Luna’s stomach does a dizzying turn that she cannot entirely blame on her sudden nausea.

“Are you _well_ , Lady Lunafreya?” 

“Dizzy,” she manages, voice little more than a whisper. The Oracle looks away from him. She wishes to get away from here. Away from these feeling which are not her own. She tries for normalcy as she says, “Can we expect your company long? It has been some time since Tenebrae hosted such a venerable guest.” 

The Chancellor laughs. It is every bit as raucous as his ridiculous clothing, “If only dear Ravus could manage half your feigned niceties.” She wants to argue. He shakes his head, holding up his left hand for peace. The fingerless leather gloves catch her attention. Partially for their absurdity; partially for the dull ache they leave her in chest. His hands are elegant and she is struck with awful certainty that, were she to touch them, they would prove too callused for a politician. If she removed the gloves she would find nearly the entirety of his palm composed of scar tissue. “I will not darken your doorstep any longer than necessary, Oracle. The Emperor only wished me to convey his gratitude for your service.” 

A long way to travel for a comparatively simple message, “Is that all?” 

He ducks his head to grin at her. There are too many teeth; a warning sign is flashing in the back of her head. Get out, it says. Get away. The revulsion she should feel is tempered by morbid curiosity as he reaches for her hand, “An old heretic I may be but I will not deny a certain fascination with these godly rituals. I _had_ to see everything this new Oracle had become for myself.”

She finds it hard to swallow. His kiss burns against the back of her hand, the touch lingering well after the fleeting press of his lips, “And what do you make of her?” 

“That would telling, ladyship. And, unlike the Draconian, I prefer to play my hand with more subtlety.” 

He leaves her with a wink. An hour passes before she manages to shake her nausea.  
______

The Chancellor takes his leave and some normalcy returns to her life. Ravus departs soon after and she is left...alone. Lunafreya wanders the manor’s empty halls. The silence has always struck her as oppressive. It is worse now. 

Silence gives her times to think and her thoughts invariably lead her back to Aera. Her ancestress has tried to give her space but the strings tying them together are drawn taut as it is. In some sickly way they are one; two halves of the same soul. 

In the midst of her worst bouts she writes Noctis. Putting words to paper calms her and thinking of her dear friend lets her settle into her own psyche. Noctis is hers. Gentianna no longer protests the familiarity of their conversations. In some way, she understands. Lunafreya needs this. 

She scans over his letter, a wry smile playing at her lips. She has never had the pleasure of meeting his friends in person but feels she knows them all the same. Ignis continues to pester him about his lack of nutrition (she agrees with him); he spent the day at the arcade with Gladio.

“The regular,” he writes. Noct’s penmanship echoes his character, pleasing but perhaps a little sloppy. His letters will lilt to the side near the end of his sentences. She finds this quirk charming. “Probably not interesting to you. But I guess...nothing in Insomnia really is? Overhead this refugee family say the Crown City might as well be a dream. I guess you’d know better than anyone. How bad is it out there, Luna?” 

He doesn’t sign his name but there’s a small print tucked in the cleft of the page. She recognizes the art by association; one of his favorite King’s Knight characters. Camilla...she shakes her head, smoothing the thumb over the attached note. 

_“I swear I’m not a creep, Luna; she just reminded me of you.”_

The Aera in her head chuckles. It feels as though she settles beside her, one hand on her shoulder as Luna begins to write, “Your prince is certainly...charming.”

“Noctis is quite dear to me. Though I fear living in such isolation does him no favors. He is...complacent.” 

Her smile remains gentle, “Most young men are. They grow out of it.” 

“Was your king ever…” 

Sorrow floods the spirit and, by extension, Lunafreya. She imagines her tongue flicking out, smoothing along the seam of her lips, “No. No...my king was...aware of his calling from a young age. Even as a child he was responsible and dour.” She sighs, reached out to smooth incorporeal fingers over the notebook, “You have more in common with the man he was than dear Noctis.”

Luna snorts, “How grim.” Aera does not reply. The spirit fades, allowing her to write her letter in peace. Luna formulates her response as best, and as tactfully, as she is able. Yes, the Crown City is different from the rest of the world. The other townships lacked its security and amenities.

“Do not hold this against yourself, Noctis,” she attempts to emphasize this, the strokes of her pen more bold. “No man is responsible for the circumstance of his birth. Only the way he uses his knowledge and his authority. Better the lives of your subjects as you are able, my prince. Stay aware of their struggle.” 

She casts about her room for something to send him. Her surroundings feel sterile in comparison. She longs for the road and her pilgrimage. Finding nothing of value, she plucks a sylleblossom from the vase beside her. The bloom fits neatly between the pages. Beside it she adds, “The Empire has deemed me fit to travel once more. If there is anything you wish from the countryside, do let me know. As ever, Luna.”

She passes the notebook back to Umbra, smoothing a hand over the dog’s head. He presses into her palm, lingering, before he trots off to accomplish his task. For once, the pang in her chest is a reaction to her own sentiment. She misses her friend. She wishes to see his face again. To laugh with him. 

In those moments she will feel the spirits arms come around her. Luna turns into the embrace.  
______  
The gods have bestowed a calling upon her. She will walk before the Chosen King. She will lead him to the throne and facilitate his victory over the darkness. Aera remains silent whenever her task is mentioned, hands linked over her belly. It does not hide the way she shakes, staring resolutely forward. 

The message is vague but...the gods could not be expected to converse as mortal men were want. She cherishes Noctis; she trusts the gods. She will see her task fulfilled. 

“Did you serve in the same capacity?” Luna continues to towel herself off as she speaks. She is alone for the first time in weeks. Niflheim has assigned an honor guard to escort her on her travels. To spy on her is more apt. Most are good men, however, as tired of war as the rest of the world. Some come to her to offer benedictions in the evening and she bestows blessings as she is able. They are more than happy to indulge her request to spend the evening at a nearby motel. They are equally sick of making camp. 

The spirit shakes her head. There is something...surreal about this projection. Hallucination, really. As she ages, Luna has come to recognize the aching similarities in their features. They could be sisters. They could pass as twins. Considering the millennia between them, the lack of any shared genetics, it is uncanny. Aera’s attention remains focused on the door, voice faraway, “I served as a messenger of the gods whims. Nothing more.” 

“And your king. Every Oracle has served her king.” 

She smiles and Luna is struck by the need to embrace her, “Yes. I served a king.” 

Lunafreya settles beside the spirit, focuses on her own feelings of contentment. They are...distant, if she is being entirely honest. There is more pain in this life than she likes to admit. But that was the way of life. Beauty mixed with pain. She thinks of the summer she spent with Noctis. The gentle way he’d shifted to make room every time she’d moved to crouch beside him. 

“He’ll make a fine king,” Aera says and Luna knows she means it. The other woman is fond of the boy. Luna finds it amusing for her part. Noct is still...very young. The four years between them seems insurmountable at times. Aera reaches out, ghostly fingers closing over her knee, “Oh, don’t sell him short. We have our appeal.” 

“We?” Luna arches a brow, chuckling. 

“My beloved was five years my senior,” Aera snorts, the inelegant sound a contrast to her typical composure. The spirit chews her lower lip between her teeth, “It takes effort. But...we are determined to worm our way into your hearts.” 

Luna is less certain. She adores Noctis, certainly, holds him in great confidence but...

It is difficult to say how the familiarity of their youth might translate into a greater attraction. In the coming years, perhaps, but...for now he remains a boy. She is a young woman. Her newly budded tastes are certainly not turned in his direction. 

Luna sighs. She dries the excess moisture from her hair before returning to bed. The sheets are cool against her skin and gods. There is nothing quite like sinking into a mattress after spending so long on the road. She turns her face into the pillow, “Tell me of your king.” 

There is no better feeling to chase her to sleep. Most of the grief floods from the spirit. Luna imagines her settling on the other half of the mattress and takes some comfort in that too. She has no close friends of her own gender. It is, perhaps, pathetic that Aera is the closest thing she has to a bosom companion. Such is the isolation of her calling. She is known by all and kept by precious few. 

“He was tall,” she whispers it as if they are in conspiracy and Luna imagines her taking her hands. It leaves her chuckling, “You laugh but. Gods, you should have seen him. Tall and sun kissed and handsome.” 

“Quite the prince.” 

“A king,” Aera corrects. She chews the inside of her cheek, “A prince is still learning his place in the world, Lunafreya. A king _knows_.”  
______ 

She dreams of him. Or, more accurately, she remembers him. 

Only that man’s smiles have no edges. His eyes are a deep, beautiful, shade of blue and his hair is a rich brown. That man mutters her name like a prayer. His kisses burn but they are clean. Theirs is the warmth of the summer sun, comforting and natural. They lack the Chancellor’s insidious poison. This Ardyn is dour and withdrawn but...he is hers. He is open and he is hers. 

“Do you blame me?” Aera mumbles, a whisper that exists both inside and outside her head. Luna finds it difficult to think. She is eighteen now. The boy between her legs is twenty three and she is in _love_ with him. He is her dearest friend; he is her closest confidant and only her devotion to the gods eclipses her love for him. Her toes curl, catching on the fabric of his cloak. This Ardyn makes love to her in a field of sylleblossoms, slow and languid. 

He moans another woman’s name. She doesn't mind; in dreams they are one and the same. His lips find hers, swallowing her cries as she comes apart. Luna screws her eyes shut, tries to breathe through the pleasure. Her legs are a vice around him. The dream will surely fade and she longs to hold on a little longer... 

The image is already growing hazy.

Aera’s fingers card through her hair. Someone says her name, “Lunafreya.” 

This Ardyn kisses her face, chuckling as he does so. This Ardyn gathers her in his arms, uses his cloak to clean her slick and his spend from between her thighs, before lying back to rest. 

Luna swallows, shaking her head, “No. No, I...I will not blame you.”

The dream fades. He takes his warmth with him and she is left empty and alone.  
______

The war continues to escalate. Another one of Lucis’ territories fall, seemingly abandoned by their king. There is...hardly any fight at all. Any conflict is resolved by the local militia. They can do precious little in the face of the empire’s magitek.

Luna surveys the carnage with a heavy heart. A girl, no more than six, and her brother (she would place the boy at four) are pressed on either side of her. He stares up at her with adoring eyes. Tears have cut tracks through an otherwise dirtied face. His sister is…

Catatonic seems the appropriate term. Her fingers are slack even as they entwine with Luna’s. Even if she cannot understand the full gravity of what has happened the child recognizes she has lost _something_. Their mother had all but begged Lunafreya to look after her young as she tended to their home. Her throat constricts, eyes burning. 

A magitek soldier had crashed through their roof. It had killed the children’s father before he could so much as think to take up arms. Their mother had clutched Luna’s hand to her breasts, desperate, eyes shining, “Please, ladyship, it...I will not take long. But….I cannot...I don’t have the heart…” 

She could not parade their father’s corpse through their home. 

“Go,” Luna had whispered. “I will look after them.” 

The people gathered around in the town square stare at her with that same desperation. There are times she fears their reverence. It borders on fanatical. A young man falls to his knees before her, sobs into the fabric of her skirts. He begs for her blessing. For her King to come. 

She can do nothing for him. Luna whispers meaningless platitudes, smoothing his wild hair back into place. She is a figurehead for those that need it, serene and elegant. She provides comfort. She is stability. 

But gods does it take its toll. 

Her honor guard must be aware of this. The youngest of her retinue (Veraque...she’s certain that’s his name) squeezes her shoulder before he goes. He tells her to take the night for herself. They will not trouble her. In her gratitude, she nearly weeps. Lunafreya manages a smile instead, pressing a chaste kiss to the back of his knuckles, “You have my gratitude, sir.” The boy nods. He stares at her with pity more than affectation.

Luna locks the motel door behind her. 

Somehow she is not surprised to find him waiting for her. Ardyn Izunia occupies her room’s lone chair. His hat rests on his lap, hair more wild than usual. The Chancellor flashes her a lopsided grin, a challenge buried beneath the oily charm. Run, it says. Run so he that might chase her. Give him an excuse to tear her apart. 

She leans back against the door instead, “Chancellor Izunia. I was not made aware of your presence.” 

More than that, she had specifically neglected making the Empire aware of her travel plans. But he finds her. He always does. For as often as he plays the bumbling eccentric, Ardyn is too clever and a half for his own good. He moves likes a shadow. And, like a shadow, he is always at her heels.

“Were you not? Such a clumsy mistake,” he plucks at his hat, glancing down. “Shall we call it even, Lady Lunafreya? You will forgive my trespass. And I shall forget this little field trip you opted to take.”

She squares her shoulders, “The Empire is aware of my duties.” 

“The Emperor, in all his _divine_ authority, has permitted you to tend to victims of the Scourge, dearest,” the endearment leaves her stiffening. It is singularly unpleasant rolling off his tongue. “He would take far less kindly to you traipsing about the battlefield.”

“I offer comfort to those in need.” 

“Yes. To the _Lucians_ in need.” A bottle of wine sits untouched on the small end table. She does not typically drink but had lacked the heart to turn the gift away. The Chancellor reaches out, inspecting the label before holding the bottle out to her, “Do you mind?” 

She waves him off. Sighing, she moves to seat herself on the edge on her bed. The impropriety of the situation does not escape her. It also does not _concern_ her. She has a lifetime of memories dedicated to this man (or the man he was). She has welcomed him into her body and she has taken him without shame. She will not be cowed by his presence in her bedroom. Ardyn seems to make note of this, arching a brow. 

Her voice is tired, “Why are you here?” 

“Is my company really so odious?” He chuckles and it is a strange thing. The face is the same. But every mannerism, every expression, is so keenly different from the man in her head. There is no justifiable reason for it to hurt so badly; it simply does. Ardyn finishes opening her wine, casting about for a glass. There is only one. She brings it to him without comment. “I thought you might prefer the company of an old friend to that of a military escort.” 

She huffs, “ _Are_ we friends, Chancellor?” 

“I am wounded you would think otherwise, my dear.” Ardyn pours himself a healthy portion of the bottle, hums in appreciation when he brings the glass to his lips. “A fine vintage. Should you like a taste?”

She should not. Luna frowns. The tips of her fingers brush his as she takes the drink from him. She is not prepared for the sudden spark of heat. Gooseflesh licks along the length of her forearm. The Chancellor cocks his head to the side, regarding her with renewed curiosity. She drinks deeply to hide her nerves. Luna swipes her tongue along her lower lip, pretends she cannot feel the weight of his gaze as it tracks the movement, “These people need me.” 

“Most do. Such is the lot of a messiah,” he waits for her to take another drink before reclaiming the glass. The Chancellor turns the glass, searches for the gentle smear of her lip gloss across the rim. It's only after he's found it that he drinks. She nearly laughs at the impropriety, the obvious mimicry of a kiss. It contrasts his otherwise serious tone, “Your duty is not to save them, Lunafreya. It is to usher in the king who shall.”

“Shall I turn a blind eye to their suffering?” 

“Yes.”

Aera rankles at this bastardization of the man she loves. Luna holds her head high, shoulders squared, “I knew a man once. _He_ believed it would be worth it. If he could save even one more soul his struggle would have _meaning_.” 

The Chancellor's head jerks up. His strange eyes flare with naked venom. He speaks slowly, achingly calm, “Did you now? Pray, what was the name of this man?” 

“Does it matter? He's long since dead.” 

“Aren't we all in the end?” he refills their drink. Ardyn stands, stretching to the full extent of his impressive height. He towers over her; the effect is only compounded by his ridiculous apparel. He cocks his head to the side, observing her as she takes the glass and drinks, “You are far too young to have ghosts whispering in your ear. A word from the wise: turn them away.” 

She's finding it difficult to breathe, “You speak from experience.” 

He smiles and for a moment he resembles himself. Ardyn smoothes the back of his fingers across her throat, follows the line of neck until he reaches her jaw. His fingers splay back into her hair, still matted with sweat and soot, “Yes.” 

His skin is unnaturally warm. The young woman frowns, fighting the urge to shift. Forward or away; the sensations are muddled. In such close proximity she cannot help but feel the darkness clawing beneath his skin. It’s a sickness. It is the antithesis of her own abilities. If she closes her eyes and focuses it feels fundamentally the _same_. They are two facets of the same whole and that _frightens_ her. There is more threat in that singular observation than the feeling of his thumb moving over her throat.

“What has done this to you?” She says. 

And Ardyn laughs, high and shrill. Not with the typical richness of his own voice but with the madness of a thousand separate souls stitched together, “Why, my dear Lunafreya, your _gods_.”  
_____

Aera will not speak with her on the subject. Gentianna is silent. The gods are silent. 

Her dreams turn darker. Her lover is driven into the wilderness, chased by a faceless rival. Luna tries to make out his features but they are always too far away. The wind carries his voice before it reaches her. She longs for her love and knows she cannot go to him. 

She knows she must betray him but the reason, the _why_ , remains hidden.

Lunafreya clutches her arms about herself, lips pursed to a thin line. A curse...their bloodline is a curse. She drags a hand over her face. The Oracle climbs from her bed. There is no reason to linger; she will not sleep again. 

She writes to Noctis during those long nights, scans over his letters. Prompto has found him and they are already dear friends. In many ways...he’s his most honest friend. He is there because he wishes it. No noble title hangs around his neck; no duty. 

She lingers on his last few sentences. The text is smaller, rushed, as if he feared he might lose his nerve. 

“Things are good here. They’re great...the guys are great. I guess it’s pretty selfish to wish for more? I just...sometimes I wish you were here. Writing is great but...I miss you. Doesn’t seem fair. You got to drag me around Tenebrae. Want to subject you to Insomnia.” 

Lunafreya smoothes her thumb over the page. The banality of the text helps. 

She only manages one line in response: One day, my king.  
_______

Ghosts do naught but haunt his tortured soul…

He remembered spitting those words, all defiance even as the spirit pierced him. The pain had been unbearable, worse even than the millennia spent within Angelgard. Ardyn frowns at his reflection, dragging the tips of his fingers over his scarred flesh. Her trident left fresh marks. A final tribute from the Draconian to remind him of his powerlessness. 

Lunafreya is the newest twist of the knife. A final curtain call as their tale draws to its close. The “Chosen King” is nearly of age and the Scourge is swelling. Eos stands on the edge of a knife, waiting for that final push. 

The Oracle thinks it will come when her final covenant is formed. Her life will prove forfeit but her King will ascend. The world will be saved and he will usher in a new age of Light. A pretty fiction. 

Ardyn knows the truth. The Long Night must fall before the Dawn can triumph. And Lunafreya herself is all that is left to hold back the curtain. He must kill her. 

And so the damnable Astral curses her with Aera’s face. 

So little of the man he was remains. That Ardyn is as much a ghost as his beloved. He prefers it that way. The daemons are wild, yes, but they are comfortable. They drown out any hurt beneath their frenzied cries; the thousand voices in his head keep him from fixating on the _one_. 

Lunafreya, with her softness and her steel, silences them. He stares into the face of his beloved’s doppelganger and is forced to remember. To rectify the monster he has become with the man he was. He hates her for it. She is a poisonous little thing, innocuous and deadly. 

He wonders how much Aera has shared with her. If she has seen everything they were. If she has whispered his name in the darkest stretches of the night. He hopes she has; he hopes every press of her fingers, every roll of her hips, leaves the Draconian _seething_. 

The Accursed tips his head back, lingering on the image. He will not deny a pull of longing. She is a beautiful creature and...his affections for her ancestress remain. They are twisted, yes, perverted but...still there. He wonders if she would feel the same. If she would cry as loudly or her brows would pinch in that same way Aera’s had. 

He wonders if he could shatter her control. If he could unmake her; if he could rob her of her god’s damned composure. Lunafreya wraps herself in the Glacian’s frigidity and he wishes to _shatter_ her. 

They are pretty thoughts. He carries them with him as he prowls the long nights.  
_______  
.  
She is twenty four the year she is engaged to Prince Noctis. 

It is not her decision. The Chancellor finds her in the gardens and grins at her. A caginess hangs about him during their encounters nowadays. The gold eyes glitter as he takes her hand, pulling her too close for propriety, and informs her she will be married. 

“Delightful, is it not? Putting all this awful bloodshed behind us. And with a wedding, no less. Such a _poetic_ new beginning.”

She stares at him, pale eyes wide, “Why? Why now?” 

Ardyn smirks, genuine pleasure radiating off him in waves. It is unkind, bordering on feral; he leans in until she can feel his breath on her cheek. His lips brush the shell of her ear, “A dutiful servant would not ask so many questions.” 

“I do not serve you.” 

“No. And unlike your gods, I would neither ask nor wish it,” he is too close to her. All those memories have a way of flooding back. It takes conscious thought to force those instincts away. She wishes to take his hand. To clutch his wrist and hold him to her. Ardyn steps back and the spell shatters, “You do not strip a queen to give agency to a pawn.”  
_______

She asks him why. Why the boy king?

Poetic justice is his answer. The Draconian thinks he inflicts fresh hurts when he sends him Lunafreya. He merely brings the story full circle. The Chosen King, Noctis, so keenly resembles Ardyn’s brother. And, while the young woman’s feelings for the man have only recently turned towards the romantic, he knows love when he sees it. The good prince is enamored with his lady.

Man may live by the grace of the gods alone. The end may be written from the beginning. And the chains wrapped about three of them will no doubt choke their life away... 

...but there is no reason he cannot take some pleasure in the journey. 

He must kill the Lady Lunafreya, yes. He will be forced to watch Aera die a second time. By his own hand, no less.

But he will make certain Noctis suffers just the same. That the Chosen King carries that same hurt with him across the entirety of his wretched, truncated, life.  
_______

Noctis has already been sent from the city by the time she arrives. Lunafreya will not deny the pang of...loss. After so many years, she wishes she might have seen his face. She is...uncertain she will have the opportunity again. These past few weeks have marked a stark decline in her health. 

More than that...the very air around them feels different. There is something electric hanging around them now. There are storm clouds on the horizon and all that is left is the wait. 

Luna stares out from the rooftop of Caelum Via. The party continues behind her. As deeply as she wishes to believe in the Armistice, General Glauca’s words continue to echo in her head. The peace will not last. She frowns, smoothing her thumb over the rim of her champagne glass. 

That pregnant feeling has returned, leaves her nearly nauseous with anticipation. 

She drains what remains of her drink and lets her eyes lull shut. King Regis has spared no expense for his guests. Fireworks light the skyline, a sharp and chaotic contrast to the tranquility of the rooftop. The soundtrack is somber, bordering on a dirge. 

“Such a beautiful city,” she feels his approach. He stands two steps behind her, off to her left, and it is still too much. Ardyn’s voice is lower than ever, that particular mix of rasp and silk, “This is your first time in Insomnia, is it not?” 

Luna nods, “As you are well aware.” She half turns to look at him, “Have you visited before?” 

“Only once. The circumstances were certainly more…exhilarating.” He steps in beside her, holds out a glass. Not champagne this time but red wine, the color more black than maroon. She takes it from him with a grateful tip of the head. “My dear, you look as if you’re attending a funeral.” 

“I cannot shake the impression that I am.” 

Ardyn hums. He has moved nearer at some point and it worries her that she cannot recall the progression. Her shoulder is fetched up against his sternum. The fingers of his left hand brush against her hip, searing through the thin fabric of her gown. They are too close for decorum. Someone will see them and presume. 

If the world was ending tomorrow, did it matter? 

She turns to face him, proud and defiant, unflinching as she stares up into his strange eyes, “Is there something you wish of me, Chancellor?” 

His smile is uncharacteristically wan. Ardyn curls a finger beneath her chin, “In this, ladyship, I believe we see eye to eye.” He glances towards the dais. King Regis and Emperor Aldercapt continue to make polite conversation, overseeing their surroundings more than observing one another. They do not notice the Chancellor or the Princess. Ardyn offers his arm, “You must be tired from your travels, my dear. Allow me to see you to your room.” 

This is it. Her final opportunity to flee. Aera remains silent, tucked away in the back of her psyche. She will not interfere. This is Lunafreya’s choice and hers alone. 

It seems only right for this to end the way it began: an Oracle in the arms of her King. One final moment of peace before they usher in the long night.  
_______

His kisses are not as she remembers. There are too many teeth. He bites at her lower lip and the fingers digging into her hips are pressing so hard they hurt. She finds herself preferring this. It is somehow easier. It reminds her there is nothing between them. He ducks his head, sucking at the underside of her jaw and the motion is sudden enough to send the hat tumbling from his head. 

“This will not be as you’ve dreamt,” it’s a threat and a promise all a once. “I am not the man your ancestress remembers.” 

“Then we will be on even footing,” she fists her hands in his scarves, uses one as leverage when the hand on her spine forces her back to bow. She catches his lip between her teeth, bold even in her inexperience, “I am not Aera.” 

She feels his smirk. Ardyn walks them back towards the window. In his infinite generosity, the King has provided her with a royal suite. The view is more beautiful than any she has ever been blessed with; they stare out over Insomnia’s skyline. Fireworks still dance above them, natural flames to contrast the neon below and the starlight above. The sight calms the fire in her blood momentarily and she sighs, tipping her head back as the Chancellor slots himself behind her. Ardyn bends, tweaking his nose against her temple, “To think: over all this you might have been queen.” 

Luna hums. The words twinge, an unfocused hurt that contrasts too sharply with the press of his hand to her belly. There’s a practiced grace to his touch, deft, as he cups her breasts, “That was never my fate. You said it yourself: my purpose, my calling, is to usher in the Chosen King. Nothing more.” 

“Such a waste,” the words are pressed into her throat, warm breath tickling over sensitive flesh. Luna shifts. His arm keeps her from moving far, bared across her chest. The Chancellor smells of leather and smoke and both surround her, earthy and masculine. His lips play across her cheek, “A sacrifice in the name of a boy king, weak and unproven.” 

“All shall be as the gods ordain.”

He smiles against her cheek and she feels the cool press of teeth. Their reflection is hazy, silhouettes intercut with the city just below. Ardyn's face is painted in jagged cuts of neon. It leaves the fine angles looking gaunt, ancient, “As the gods ordain. Oh, my dear Lunafreya, do not tell me you still have _faith_.”

She does not know if she does. What is left to her is uglier than faith. It is a slinking thing, worming its way through her veins. Necessity, she thinks; it is necessity. It is a desperation for purpose; the human need for justification. If she must die then she must to die for a _reason_. 

His lips find her pulse, sucking hard enough to hurt. Perhaps he will leave a mark. Perhaps she will not mend it. There is something thrilling in that notion, a petty defiance against the gods and the powerlessness which defines her life. Luna groans. She finds his left hand and tangles their fingers together, draws it to rest over her belly. His fingers curl against the sensitive skin, nails biting. 

He could kill her, it says. If the mood so took him, he could tear her apart. Luna is not afraid. He has always been capable of killing her. That she is here in his arms changes nothing. She leans her head back against his shoulder. The excess fabric of his finery, too many scarves and too many vests and coats and everything else, fold over her smaller figure. She is left adrift as he curls himself about her. 

“Such a brave girl,” he mutters. 

“Perhaps it is my _faith_ ,” a savage glee washes over her. The Chancellor prides himself on his abilities, likes to imagine he can worm his way beneath her skin. It is a double edged sword and she is every bit as sharp. “If you are to kill me...it cannot be here, can it?” 

There is something unkind in his laugh and he bites down on her shoulder hard enough to make her think he’s broken skin. Luna’s gasp escapes her like a hiss, “No, but that is a pretty imagining, don’t you think? The Draconian swooping in to save his precious Oracle from such debasement.” 

“This is my _choice_.” 

“Oh, but of course, my Luna. How could I wish it otherwise?” He cups her between her legs and she cannot help but groan, rocking into the pressure of his hold. Heat radiates off of him, borderline feverish, bleeding through the fabric of her gown. The conversation lapses between them. She recognizes it for what it is: one last chance to extricate herself from the situation. 

Lunafreya turns in the circle of arms. The moonlight leaves her painted in silvers, strong and steely and so befitting her namesake. She has never run from him before; she will not start now. The Oracle twines her arms about his neck and drags him to her for a kiss. 

She thinks she tastes regret on his tongue. It is subsumed, buried beneath his hate and his hunger. Ardyn snickers against her lips and the sound is more akin to a snarl than anything.  
_______ 

He leaves her skin painted with bruises. Fingerprints emblazoned across her hips and rib cage. His stubble itches across her inner thigh, leaves long stretches of red across the sensitive skin. She doesn’t care. There is something freeing in giving herself over so entirely. 

If she opens her eyes she will find scourge dripping down her thigh, cutting her pale skin with lines of obsidian. The tongue pressing into her is scorching, not quite right, not quite human, and…

....she whines, thrashing against his hold. One of his arms is barred across her hips, holding her in place as he works her through another orgasm. The muscles in her thighs already ache, spread wide to accommodate the breadth of his shoulders. 

“My Lunafreya,” he breathes the words, blasphemous and damning, against her core. If she looks down at him, she will find a daemon staring back. A gold sclera burning in a sea of blackness. She moans, digging his heel between his shoulder blades. His touch burns. He pulls back from her just enough to press his lips to her upper thigh, “What a beautiful heretic you make.” 

She finds herself stroking his hair. The gesture is too soft compared to everything which has preceded it. Ardyn crawls up the length of her body, settling the entirety of his weight over her. She opens her eyes and finds only the man staring back at her, handsome and wicked. He reminds her of the Infernian in that moment, skin flushed and hair loose about his face. 

He speaks against her lips, a harsh whisper as he clutches her legs around his hips. “The Draconian does not deserve your loyalty.” She bares her teeth against his shoulder, hisses when he finally pushes inside her. There is pain, sharp and hot and sudden, “He has taken your freedom, your family, your life. And still you kneel.” 

He sucks at her throat hard enough to hurt, hard enough to make her cry out, nails digging into the space between his shoulders. She traces the ridge of his spine and wonders if she can break skin. If this wretched creature, this echo, still bleeds, “And what path should I walk instead?” 

He smiles, rolling his hips with torturous slowness. The pain is all but gone, replaced with maddening pleasure. It is tempered by her frustrations; every time she attempts to match his rhythm, he will adjust. He _fights_ to keep them out of sync, “Defy your gods. Defy your boy king. Why waste yourself as a sacrifice to unfeeling gods? Rule as a Queen in the dark.”

She thinks he means it. The offer is as genuine as he can hope to make it. He kisses her, deep and full of promise. He will give her Insomnia. He will spare her the slow, torturous death the gods have promised. They will spend an eternity intertwined just like this; they will reclaim the future they should have shared a millennia prior. 

It should appeal to her. It should offend her. 

Luna smiles, soft and sad. She takes his face in her hands and kisses him, pitying. 

She prays for him. She prays that one day his soul will know peace. 

Something like disappointment flickers across his features. It is gone too quickly for her to process, replaced by the arrogance and superiority he wears like a second skin.  
_______

He takes his leave shortly before dawn. Luna watches him rearrange all his layers, fighting himself back into some semblance of order. He has the audacity to grin at her, clucks his tongue and chastises her for staring. A playful show to disguise the genuine coldness. 

His goodbye kiss is featherlight. A contrast to the way he yanks on her hair, holding her in place as he speaks, “Alas, all good things must end. Rest, my dear. I wager you’ve an eventful day ahead of you.”

“Where will you go?” 

He smirks, “To find your wayward King. But I would not concern yourself with that.” Ardyn hums, dragging his lips across her cheek to her ear, “Do keep yourself well, Lunafreya. Know that I will count the days to our next encounter.” 

Instinctively, she moves a hand to shield her belly. In the moment she does not understand why. Only that pain lances through her. Only that Aera recoils as if in memory. 

Ardyn tips his hat to her and departs.

An hour later, MT’s arrive at her door to ferry her away. 

Insomnia will fall before the following dawn. 

And sometime, months from now, they will meet again. Lunafreya will die with her King beside her. She will die with her gods behind her. She will die with a prayer on her lips. She will die praying Arydn's soul finds the peace it so badly deserves.


End file.
